9 hours ago
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Best alias retention by a “pretend-anonymous” blogger, long after everyone in the world knows who he is: "Oscar"
Best stick-to-the-law blogger, also reporter on topics I cannot possibly fathom given my miniscule knowledge of corporate law (prize awarded in spite of his effort to appease me with a post on cheese today): Smith
Best stick-to-the-law blogger, also reporter on topics I cannot possibly fathom given my miniscule knowledge of corporate law (prize awarded in spite of his effort to appease me with a post on cheese today): Smith
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Hey law prof, have you spoken to a lawyer lately?
An interesting aspect of teaching law is that you can go a long time without actually speaking to a client or lawyer. Decades perhaps. This is, I think, unique to our profession. It would be unthinkable for medical profs to have zippo contact with a sick person or a practicing doctor, or for art profs to never encounter artists or pick up a paint brush, or to have music profs who would not be able to play the piano or some such instrument. But we do not need to know how to practice law – we simply have to know how to teach it. Whether you have any contact with the legal profession is entirely up to you.
Since my entry into the Law School was through the doors of practice (I directed a clinical program where we provided legal services to indigent people in the community), I am one of those who misses contact with my *other colleagues,* the practitioners in my field. I was, therefore, happy to spend an evening yesterday with a group of lawyers who are guest lecturing at the Law School this week.
As I listened to stories of bizarre clients doing awful things to each other, I though about how much I missed the days when I was part of that world. I thought back to my days in the courtroom and those minutes before your case is called, when you are making idle conversation with clients who are desperate, nervous, and angry. I missed it, but only for a minute.
Now that I have had my moment of nostalgia, I am happy to spin around and say – whew! Sure glad I’m not in the thick of it anymore. It’s a tense world out there, beyond the safe halls on Bascom hill.
Since my entry into the Law School was through the doors of practice (I directed a clinical program where we provided legal services to indigent people in the community), I am one of those who misses contact with my *other colleagues,* the practitioners in my field. I was, therefore, happy to spend an evening yesterday with a group of lawyers who are guest lecturing at the Law School this week.
As I listened to stories of bizarre clients doing awful things to each other, I though about how much I missed the days when I was part of that world. I thought back to my days in the courtroom and those minutes before your case is called, when you are making idle conversation with clients who are desperate, nervous, and angry. I missed it, but only for a minute.
Now that I have had my moment of nostalgia, I am happy to spin around and say – whew! Sure glad I’m not in the thick of it anymore. It’s a tense world out there, beyond the safe halls on Bascom hill.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Resolved: after a lifetime of distractions, I have decided to settle down. I have whittled my interests down to a handful; everything else is tabled.
Why this resolution? Because this week I am being reminded of a crazy year I had not too long ago. This year, things will be different: I am determined to stick with one large project. And just a wee handful of little ones.
A couple of years ago I got it into my head that I should try a different kind of hobby. I was then cooking several nights each week at l’Etoile and I developed a true interest in the small farms and wineries that stocked the shelves of the restaurant.
Wouldn’t anyone in my place decide to set up a nonprofit and advertise on the Net their services for taking small groups to France on an exploration of wineries, cheesemakers, distilleries and the like?
I did. Field to Table was born, with a staff of one – me. I was the trip planner, the driver, the idea person and the accountant. I even wrote out all sorts of legal disclaimers to preclude gross liability in case I messed up. Not that it would have helped.
In the end, I made three trips to France (Provence, Alsasce and Brittany) before I understood that my life was spinning out of control and I had to put a stop to some of my extracurriculars. Ceasing parenting responsibilities wasn’t an option and I like my law teaching job just fine. Field to Table closed doors after a mad year of trekking through vineyards, farmlands and some damn good country inn-cooking places on the continent.
But nothing really ends. One cheerful group that traveled with me to Provence remained quite bonded. Indeed, the trip, which could have ended with us killing each other in the cramped little minivan that I drove along obsolete and hilly backroads, actually resulted in lifelong friendships. I’m going to spend a long week-end with one of the Provence couples that lives in the Bay Area (family obligations require that I pop into Berkeley for a bit this month). They’re foodies, both of them and so postings about Things That You Eat will be part of Ocean fare once more.
Of course, having left New York in a total rain shower, having arrived in Madison to a drizzle, I am this week heading out to downpours in the SF area. Could someone pull some strings and help get rid of the clouds that are hovering over my days right now?
A couple of years ago I got it into my head that I should try a different kind of hobby. I was then cooking several nights each week at l’Etoile and I developed a true interest in the small farms and wineries that stocked the shelves of the restaurant.
Wouldn’t anyone in my place decide to set up a nonprofit and advertise on the Net their services for taking small groups to France on an exploration of wineries, cheesemakers, distilleries and the like?
I did. Field to Table was born, with a staff of one – me. I was the trip planner, the driver, the idea person and the accountant. I even wrote out all sorts of legal disclaimers to preclude gross liability in case I messed up. Not that it would have helped.
In the end, I made three trips to France (Provence, Alsasce and Brittany) before I understood that my life was spinning out of control and I had to put a stop to some of my extracurriculars. Ceasing parenting responsibilities wasn’t an option and I like my law teaching job just fine. Field to Table closed doors after a mad year of trekking through vineyards, farmlands and some damn good country inn-cooking places on the continent.
But nothing really ends. One cheerful group that traveled with me to Provence remained quite bonded. Indeed, the trip, which could have ended with us killing each other in the cramped little minivan that I drove along obsolete and hilly backroads, actually resulted in lifelong friendships. I’m going to spend a long week-end with one of the Provence couples that lives in the Bay Area (family obligations require that I pop into Berkeley for a bit this month). They’re foodies, both of them and so postings about Things That You Eat will be part of Ocean fare once more.
Of course, having left New York in a total rain shower, having arrived in Madison to a drizzle, I am this week heading out to downpours in the SF area. Could someone pull some strings and help get rid of the clouds that are hovering over my days right now?
The aesthetic pleasure of noise, clutter and discomfort
Those of us who love coffee shops have a habit of groaning about how inadequate they are in New York. You get to the point where you are willing to buy stock in Starbucks just so that there would be more of them in the city and, even more importantly, that they would be larger, so that you could indeed count on sitting down to drink your coffee.
But it is not to be. In NY, my latte addiction either has to be treated at home (though drinking it in private is like downing shots of vodka in the bathroom; these are activities that demand companionship, or at least a murmur of voices in the background), or it has to be a commodity purchased on the run.
I wish I had taken photos of all the people I'd seen drinking their espressos while biking, roller-blading, walking.
In Madison, the problem is of a different kind. Oh there are Starbucks alright. And Ancoras and Victors and Steep and Brews, plus a host of newish babies on State Street. Many are large. Did anyone else think we were getting a Taco Palace of some sort when the new Starbucks went up on University?
Inside, our coffee shops are just too comfortable for words. We have plush chairs, tables, Wi-Fi, we have fireplaces, and newspapers loosely scattered. There are always a few people, but not so many that you could not get a seat at a table.
So why is it that sometimes I think back nostalgically to the inadequate coffee scene in New York? That I smile when I recall my impatience on Sunday as I stood with my paper cup, waiting for the oblivious idiot to get up and gather his trash from the dirty table, so that I could grab his chair and rest for a minute?
But it is not to be. In NY, my latte addiction either has to be treated at home (though drinking it in private is like downing shots of vodka in the bathroom; these are activities that demand companionship, or at least a murmur of voices in the background), or it has to be a commodity purchased on the run.
I wish I had taken photos of all the people I'd seen drinking their espressos while biking, roller-blading, walking.
In Madison, the problem is of a different kind. Oh there are Starbucks alright. And Ancoras and Victors and Steep and Brews, plus a host of newish babies on State Street. Many are large. Did anyone else think we were getting a Taco Palace of some sort when the new Starbucks went up on University?
Inside, our coffee shops are just too comfortable for words. We have plush chairs, tables, Wi-Fi, we have fireplaces, and newspapers loosely scattered. There are always a few people, but not so many that you could not get a seat at a table.
So why is it that sometimes I think back nostalgically to the inadequate coffee scene in New York? That I smile when I recall my impatience on Sunday as I stood with my paper cup, waiting for the oblivious idiot to get up and gather his trash from the dirty table, so that I could grab his chair and rest for a minute?
Monday, February 14, 2005
Dear New York, I miss you…
I am back in Madison. It took twenty minutes to drive home (I live about as far as you can get from the Airport). I miss New York.
The same rain that fell in the city this morning, created a slick surface here, in Madison. And my windshield froze over. And why am I driving anyway? People should not have to drive every day of their lives.
I got home and found that no one had broken into my house. The mail had accumulated in the mailbox at the curbside. No one had gone through it looking for checks and other good stuff. It’s eerily quiet here. I checked my email and answered all those wonderful wonderful people who wrote nice things in my absence.
Then it became horrendously quiet. Great! I have work to do!
I miss New York.
The same rain that fell in the city this morning, created a slick surface here, in Madison. And my windshield froze over. And why am I driving anyway? People should not have to drive every day of their lives.
I got home and found that no one had broken into my house. The mail had accumulated in the mailbox at the curbside. No one had gone through it looking for checks and other good stuff. It’s eerily quiet here. I checked my email and answered all those wonderful wonderful people who wrote nice things in my absence.
Then it became horrendously quiet. Great! I have work to do!
I miss New York.
In New York: Monday morning
Today, the city returns to its workday insanity and I return to Madison. Next month, when I am in New York again, the saffron color will be a memory and nothing more.
I have never (before) much liked Central Park, at the same time that I found it to be an idea with genius written all over it. A New York without it would be a city without a heart, without air, without sun, without the seasons leaving a mark.
But this week-end, I loved the Park -- for its community, for its banter (“it is saffron,” no, “it is orange vomit”), for its love of art and love of hating art. People came out and commented outside of New York as well. Friends and strangers wrote emails and blogposts, there, too, sharing something of themselves (who would you want to spend your days with – someone who saw saffron and community, or someone who saw vomit and plastic-coated dirty laundry? Or, who saw no reason to comment at all?).
Just one last look at the ripple of saffron on a rainy Monday morning. It sent a ripple through the city, alright. And the world watched, for once not repulsed by our audacity as we let Christo do his thing, boldly, brilliantly.
I have never (before) much liked Central Park, at the same time that I found it to be an idea with genius written all over it. A New York without it would be a city without a heart, without air, without sun, without the seasons leaving a mark.
But this week-end, I loved the Park -- for its community, for its banter (“it is saffron,” no, “it is orange vomit”), for its love of art and love of hating art. People came out and commented outside of New York as well. Friends and strangers wrote emails and blogposts, there, too, sharing something of themselves (who would you want to spend your days with – someone who saw saffron and community, or someone who saw vomit and plastic-coated dirty laundry? Or, who saw no reason to comment at all?).
Just one last look at the ripple of saffron on a rainy Monday morning. It sent a ripple through the city, alright. And the world watched, for once not repulsed by our audacity as we let Christo do his thing, boldly, brilliantly.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
In New York: Sunday in the park
Today I felt Central Park measured up to my beloved Lazienki Park in Warsaw. It was a day of play and promenades, always against the saffron banners.
Certainly there are critics who feel compelled to knock down the Gates art project. One reader wrote to me and said: "but it's sooo last century!" Maybe. But my reaction is closer to that of a New Yorker, an older woman who stood next to me on the Terrace of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and said: "This is a real happening! I cannot remember when we have had one of those, it's been so long. The measure of its success? That people came and got engaged. Just look at the crowds that are filling the park!"
Certainly there are critics who feel compelled to knock down the Gates art project. One reader wrote to me and said: "but it's sooo last century!" Maybe. But my reaction is closer to that of a New Yorker, an older woman who stood next to me on the Terrace of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and said: "This is a real happening! I cannot remember when we have had one of those, it's been so long. The measure of its success? That people came and got engaged. Just look at the crowds that are filling the park!"
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